by Angus Wells
Without further ado he turned and quit the cell. The soldiers parted warily, as if they anticipated attack. It felt to Calandryll that they were already tried and found guilty, and he struggled to find some measure of optimism as he rose and stretched, working knots from his stiffened muscles.
“Hurry.” The vexillan’s command rang impatiently from the outer chamber. “I’d not keep Menelian waiting. Nor, I’d think, would you—save you be afraid of facing him.”
“We’ve nothing to fear,” Calandryll declared, hoping that he spoke the truth. “Lead on.”
He walked out of the cell, the room beyond warm, braziers set about its perimeters, the scent of wine mingling with the heady aroma of the narcotic tobacco favored by the Kands to render the air thick. Ek’Nyle waited by the main door, beckoning them out, a squad of six armed and armored men forming around them. A full moon westered toward the clifftops, setting the hour sometime past midnight, blanching the city, outlining the catapults along the heights like gibbets. In the harbor masts swayed gently and waves lapped softly. Calandryll saw the single stem of the Vanu warboat, but of its crew or Katya he saw no sign.
“This way.”
Ek’Nyle sounded irritated, irked by the disturbance of his night, and it occurred to Calandryll that the demands of the sorcerer Menelian must take preference over those of the vexillan. It was some small measure of consolation as they were herded away from the barbican into the darkened streets of Vishat’yi.
Soldiers stood alert by the barricade sealing the street that led inward from the mole, warned of their coming by the torches of their escort. They saluted as ek’Nyle approached, a way already cleared, closed behind the nocturnal visitors as they went on into the city. It was darker there, the buildings close, rising up the slopes like terraced cliffs, their windows shuttered so that no light shone out; nor were there such lanterns as brightened the avenues of Lysse’s cities, the brands held aloft by the two leading soldiers and the glow of the moon the only sources of illumination. They walked through pooling shadows, the drumming of their boots echoing off the night. It seemed to Calandryll like a threnody, the darkness matching his mood, so that he began to ponder the wisdom of his suggestion.
Pointless, he told himself as they climbed a rising avenue, it was done and they were committed. As he had said: sooner or later ek’Nyle would surely have brought them before the wizard, so sooner was the preferred option. Whatever the outcome they would, at very least, know more certainly where they stood, and that must be better than the limbo of the cell. He fought his doubts, seeking a tranquillity that eluded him.
The avenue turned and they ascended a flight of wide steps, the city falling away below them, the harbor a pool of black and silver, harlequined by the moon. Then the steps devolved on a small plaza, surrounded by tall, narrow buildings, each walled, and ek’Nyle halted before a gate. He tugged a cord and an unseen bell chimed, the sound clean and clear as the moon’s light. The gate opened and the vexillan led his men through into a paved courtyard, the keeper a cloaked and hooded shadow that moved on silent feet across the stones to usher them inside the house.
They entered a vestibule lit by seven lanterns, their trapped flames giving off a faint resinous perfume. The floor was tiled in the manner of Kandahar with colorful mosaics, while the walls were starkly white. An effigy of Burash stood in a niche. The gatekeeper disappeared back into the courtyard, the door closing silently behind him as the inner portal swung open to reveal a thin-faced man whose robe of silver-decorated black defined him as the sorcerer. He was, Calandryll noticed with vague surprise, young, not yet close to his middle years, his cheeks clean-shaved and his hair pale for a Kand, more brown than black. His eyes were dark and confident as they surveyed his visitors, bright with intelligence and, Calandryll thought, amusement.
He studied them awhile, that delay visibly increasing ek’Nyle’s irritation, then nodded and said, “So these are the ones.”
“Who else?” the vexillan snapped. “Do you work your art on them and I’ll be gone.”
“Go now,” the mage returned, his voice careless. “I’d not keep you from your duties . . . Or your bed.”
Ek’Nyle frowned, disconcerted, momentarily unsure of himself, his poise threatened.
“And take your men,” the wizard added.
“What?” Confusion strangled ek’Nyle’s question.
“I am protected well enough.” Finely sculptured lips parted in a smile. “Or do you doubt my talents?”
“No, but . . .” The vexillan shook his head, confusion mounting, his discomfort widening the mage’s smile. “Is that wise?”
“I deem it so,” came the answer. “And doubtless you’ve tasks aplenty for your men.”
Ek’Nyle nodded curtly, attempting to regain his air of authority. “If that be your wish,” he muttered.
“It is,” the mage declared. “You need not fear for my safety.”
“So then.” Ek’Nyle cast an angry glance at the prisoners. “As you wish. I leave them in your care.”
“And I bid you good night.”
The black-robed man watched as the vexillan spun about, barking an order that brought his men trotting hurriedly after him. The door closed on their backs and for a moment the clatter of marching heels drummed in the courtyard. Then there was silence.
“I am named Menelian,” the sorcerer announced. “Do you follow me, and we may settle this matter of your probity.”
POLITE as if he entertained welcome guests, Menelian ushered them from the vestibule into a cozy chamber full of warmth and light. Shutters were closed over windows of colored glass, their panes reflecting the glow of the lanterns ensconced in niches in the stark white walls, scented like those outside, and in a hearth a generous fire burned. Two plain wood settles stood before the hearth, chairs of equally simple design spread along the walls, which were unadorned. At the center of the chamber was a table laid with cold meats, spiced vegetables, bread and cheese, a bowl of fruit, four tankards, and a keg. The simplicity of the room surprised Calandryll, his frown registering so that the sorcerer chuckled and asked, “What had you expected? The paraphernalia of thaumaturgy, black candles and skulls? Or sybaritic luxury?”
“I was not sure what to expect.” Calandryll shook his head, taken aback by the wizard’s casual manner and unsure how to respond. The sorcerer appeared friendly, his amusement genuine, but without hint of mockery, and the gaze he turned upon them seemed honest. But so had Rhythamun when he posed as a friend: Calandryll chose to wait judgment. At his side he saw Bracht staring warily about.
“I cannot blame you for doubting me, knowing Quindar ek’Nyle as I do,” Menelian said, his smile hinting at apology. “I assume you were held in that stinking pit he uses for a cell and fed no better than his men. Warm yourselves. Eat, partake of this good ale. Or do you prefer wine?”
His manner remained that of an eager host rather than an inquisitor and Calandryll felt confusion grow. This was a mage sworn to service of the Tyrant—did that loyalty make him friend or foe? “Ale suits well,” he murmured. “But . . .”
“Doubtless you anticipated a somewhat different reception.” Menelian chuckled, setting a tankard beneath the keg’s spigot, filling it and then three more. He passed them round, still smiling as he saw the frank suspicion on Bracht’s face, measured doubt on Tekkan’s. He raised his own and drank deep, wiping foam from his lips casually as if they conversed in some tavern. “And after Quindar’s welcome I hardly blame you.”
He drank again, watching them over the rim of the tankard, his eyes bright with intelligence.
“I assure you, gentlemen, that there is no poison in the ale. Nor magicks or potions. Only an honest brew and food I thought you might enjoy.”
Calandryll glanced at Bracht and saw disbelief in the Kern’s eyes. Neither he nor Tekkan moved to taste their drink. He looked at Menelian and shrugged—the man was a sorcerer: he had no need of potions to work his art—he drank.
The ale was,
as the mage had promised, good. It washed away the fur-tongued memory of ek’Nyle’s stew and awakened his appetite: he took another draught, deeper this time.
“Your comrades appear less trusting,” Menelian said, “so perhaps I’d best lay cards on the table—for I think that trust is important here, and I think we’ve little time to waste.”
He motioned at the settles, and without waiting for them to seat themselves cocked a finger, murmuring softly guttural words. A chair rose from its place against the wall and floated to him as the scent of almonds briefly contested with the lanterns’ perfumed vapors. “So,” he said as he sat. “Let me be the first to show my hand. Mayhap that will convince you that my intentions are honest, and I am no enemy. Rather, a friend.”
Bracht’s narrowed eyes argued the suggestion, but still he took a place beside Tekkan. Calandryll lowered himself to the opposite bench, intrigued despite his doubts. From the corner of his eye he saw Bracht take a cautious sip, Tekkan follow suit. His own head felt clear and he thought perhaps Menelian might speak the truth: Rhythamun’s duplicity need not mean all sorcerers were hostile.
“I serve the Tyrant,” Menelian declared, “let there be no doubt of that. I have pledged loyalty to Xenomenus, but that service does not mean we are enemies—the contrary, I think. Please do not confuse me with such as Quindar ek’Nyle.” This directed at Bracht, whose scowling face still registered suspicion. “The vexillan is a soldier, and has the tendency of most soldiers to think in simple terms—black and white, with no shades between. He organizes the defense of a city threatened by civil war: Sathoman ek’Hennem holds most of the eastern coast and is likely to attack Vishat’yi ere long—Quindar perceives a warboat in his harbor and finds no handy place in his thinking to which he might assign it. Ergo, he suspects you of some underhand ploy. Some stratagem of ek’Hennem’s he cannot yet discern.”
“And you do not?”
Calandryll realized that his tankard was empty. Menelian rose, taking it and refilling it. On impulse Calandryll followed him to the table, helping himself to food as the sorcerer said, “No. I have some idea who you are—or what—and that is why I had you brought here at this ungodly hour.”
They returned to their respective seats as Tekkan climbed to his feet and loaded a platter with meat and bread. After a moment’s hesitation Bracht joined him.
“I serve the Tyrant,” Menelian repeated. “I am a lesser member of that elect group sworn to prevent the chaos that arose when every petty lordling employed a host of wizards to further his ambitions. You know of the Sorcerers War?”
Calandryll nodded and the mage continued, “And you have already met with Anomius, who served Sathoman.”
He raised a hand as Bracht’s platter was set aside, the Kern’s hand dropping to his swordhilt.
“Put up your blade, Bracht ni Errhyn, for I’m not your foe. More like your friend. Listen to me!”
Bracht frowned doubtfully, but the falchion slid back into the scabbard and he took up his plate again.
“Anomius lives,” Menelian said. “He was captured and taken prisoner to Nhur-jabal and cast into a dungeon, bound there by magic. But even so the gramaryes he left behind furthered Sathoman ek’Hennem’s cause and the Fayne Lord triumphed in the east. The Tyrant is young, and like most young men takes a short view—in hope of victory over Sathoman he has freed Anomius.”
“Who would see us dead, I think,” Bracht grunted.
“Indeed he would,” Menelian agreed. “And within a few days, Quindar ek’Nyle will receive the Tyrant’s orders to apprehend you and deliver you to Nhur-jabal. Anomius launches a plot against you.”
He paused dramatically, sipping ale, and Calandryll said, “Why do you tell us this?”
“Because we who name ourselves the Tyrant’s sorcerers are pledged to serve all Kandahar,” Menelian replied, “and Anomius serves only himself. I received word from certain of my colleagues of his desire to take you; and at the same time, word that those of the inner circle, who are far mightier than I, have seen such stirrings in the occult fundus as must override our immediate loyalties to Xenomenus.”
“Sorcerers’ riddles,” Bracht said dubiously.
“No!” Menelian shook his head. “Warning and aid. The Tyrant sees only the immediate advantage—victory over Sathoman—and to that end will listen to Anomius, who seeks to take you for personal revenge.”
“Why?” Calandryll asked, wanting for reasons he could not yet define to trust the sorcerer, but not yet sure he should.
“Because he believes you have obtained some book of gramaryes as can render him supreme,” Menelian returned.
“That was a gambit to escape Sathoman ek’Hennem,” Calandryll said carefully. “No more.”
“Much more, I think,” said Menelian. “I think you went to Tezin-dar to find the Arcanum.”
Calandryll’s platter hit the floor, what little food was left spilling unnoticed over the polished planks. Menelian gestured, so that the spillage was flung into the fire, where woodsmoke became mingled with the perfume of almonds.
“Anomius does not yet know that,” he said earnestly. “But whatever tale you spun him, his ambition prompts him to believe you sought a tome that would reveal such ancient spells as must make him master of all Kandahar. He’d have it, and his revenge, too. He’s crazed, but like some beast with a taste for human flesh—cunning and dangerous.”
“And you know its true meaning?”
Calandryll stared at the sorcerer. Menelian nodded. “The masters of the inner circle discerned the true import of your quest,” he said solemnly. “Once they had probed Anomius and thought on what you did.” He looked to Tekkan then, his expression curious. “Did the holy men of Vanu not realize that what they divined must likely be known to others?”
Tekkan shrugged. “I am not of that circle. I do only what they said I should.”
“Which was to hunt down the seekers of the Arcanum and bring the book to Vanu that it might be destroyed?” asked Menelian.
Tekkan nodded. “How do you know that?” he asked.
Menelian smiled a shade ruefully and answered, “Vanu folk wandering so far south? It needed only an educated guess to reach that conclusion—but heed me, for as I said, we’ve little time. I’ll tell you all I know and you may judge then whether or not you’ll trust me.”
He looked them each in the eyes, his own no longer amused, but filled with a fervent seriousness that spoke of honesty; and more than a little trepidation.
“The existence of the Arcanum was—indeed, still is—a close-kept secret. Had we Tyrant’s sorcerers believed we might find and destroy it, we should have ventured to Gessyth long past; but Tezin-dar was a legend and all the prophecies concerning that fabled city confirmed that only those chosen by the gods might survive the journey. Sometime past those of the inner circle sensed such flux in the occult fundus as suggested some stratagem was afoot concerning the book, but not the where or how of it. With so little knowledge, we could not act, only await events. But then Anomius was taken and the outlines of his ambition and his belief became clear—we learned that he had encountered a young man come out of Lysse and a warrior of Cuan na’For, bound for Gessyth in search of what he believed was a grimoire of supreme power. Though he had not, the masters of the inner circle guessed this must be the Arcanum, but from what Anomius revealed, it seemed neither possessed such knowledge as would make them the designers of such a quest, and so it was felt some other agency lay behind them. Word came of a Vanu warboat traveling from Kharasul to Gessyth, and when Anomius was freed he spoke of Calandryll den Karynth and Bracht ni Errhyn. The rest is simple logic—those two appear in Vishat’yi on board a Vanu boat, but . . .” He paused, studying their faces with dreadful intensity, “You do not have the Arcanum with you.”
Calandryll shook his head: “No.”
“Then,” said Menelian slowly, “either you failed, or the book was wrested from you. Not by Anomius, for he still lusts after it. Then mayhap by the one
who sent you?”
Now Calandryll nodded: “Aye. By Rhythamun.”
“Rhythamun?” Menelian asked.
Calandryll heard Bracht’s sharp intake of breath, ignored it. “He is a mage,” he said. “He tricked us. We believed him honest when he told us he sought to destroy the book. We reached Tezin-dar and the Guardians gave it into our keeping, but then Rhythamun appeared and seized it.” He paused, grimacing, anger and disgust in his voice as he added, “He gave me a magical stone to wear. To aid me and guide me, he said. The stone brought him there! Now we go after him.”
“And he knows what the Arcanum is?” The sorcerer’s voice was low, harsh with horror.
Calandryll ducked his head. “Aye. He’d raise the Mad God.”
“Insanity!” Menelian’s aplomb was vanished; suddenly he looked young and frightened. “Are his wits addled?”
“By lust for a power he believes he can control.” Tekkan set down his tankard, his soft voice somber. “The holy men of my land scried this—that Rhythamun sought the book, but could not approach Tezin-dar himself, only through the agency of others. Calandryll was one, Bracht another, my daughter the third.”
“Your daughter?” Menelian frowned confusion.
“Katya,” Tekkan said, “who waits now in the harbor.”
Menelian nodded slowly. “The three,” he murmured. Then, louder, “And know you where this Rhythamun has gone?”
“He wore the form of Varent den Tarl of Aldarin,” Calandryll said, “and likely returned there. Beyond that . . .”
He shrugged helplessly. Tekkan said, “Katya wears a stone given her by the holy men that points us to the one Rhythamun gave Calandryll. The wizard took it when he seized the book and now it points to Aldarin.”
“Then you must go there,” Menelian said urgently. “With all haste! I’ll send word to ek’Nyle that you’re to be given all assistance, that no hindrance be set on your departing.”
“Why?”
Bracht’s question cracked out like a whip. Calandryll and Tekkan swung to face him, seeing a visage set in lines of doubt. Menelian frowned and asked softly, “You ask me why?”